


(oh to live on) sugar mountain

by that_this_will_do



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (also sort of), (sort of), Adolescence, Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fourth of July, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Platonic Bath-Taking, Power Outage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19755943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_this_will_do/pseuds/that_this_will_do
Summary: She’s sitting in the dark, in an oversized t-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. Sweat sticks to her skin. It feels like there’s a hole inside her that’s always there but she doesn’t always notice. Her best friend is sitting next to her. It’s the Fourth of July. She wants to scream. Wants to know if he feels it too, this gaping, wanting aloneness. She has to say something, but she doesn’t really know how, so the words that fall from her lips are:“Remember that game we used to play when we were kids?”Written for the 100 kinkmeme, 2019 flash round.





	(oh to live on) sugar mountain

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 100 kinkmeme prompt: Bellamy and Clarke start playing house as kids. Bellamy loved playing the daddy, and Clarke loved playing the baby. Somehow, they never quite grew out of it. Now, as teenagers, they've found a new way to play.
> 
> thank you to everyone who read and commented on this during the kinkmeme! you are all so wonderful and your words made my days! 
> 
> for new readers, this is not porn or sex. But it is something. Bellamy and Clarke are like 13/14/15-ish here.

They’re alone in her house on the Fourth of July. Everyone else is out watching fireworks (Octavia and friends), on a date (Abby), or already gone home to sleep (Aurora). Clarke and Bellamy have stayed behind, the last two hold-outs who do not want to put up with new boyfriends or untimely patriotism.

It’s hot, even inside, oppressively hot, and unnervingly dark and quiet. The power went out about twenty minutes ago. All the lights on all their little electronics--the stereo system controller, the buttons on the TV, the wifi router, the lava lamp--have all switched off. Their constant low-level humming now gone. Clarke hadn’t realized how loud they really were. There’s no rumble of the dishwasher or plopping, splurting sound of the AC. It’s been too long since the refrigerator last turned over with it’s usual hiss.

She walks around opening windows while Bellamy looks for the battery-powered lanterns. When she gets to the front room, the streetlight is also off. She flips the light-switches as she passes them. Back and forth and nothing happens. Her heart beats. She wanders back in the living room where they had been playing Mario Kart before the blackout. Sits on the edge of couch and tip-taps her bare feet against the carpet. Blinks as her eyes adjust to the darkness. Her hands are shaking.

Bellamy comes in a minute later in carrying a couple flashlights. 

“This was all I could find,” he says, tossing her one. In the dim, she can see it coming towards her and before she can really think about it, she throws her hands up in front of her face to stop it from hitting her. It clatters to the floor. Bellamy huffs a laugh and picks it up, this time handing it to her

“You could have tried to catch it,” he says, teasing.

“Shut up,” she mumbles.

He sits down on the floor, leaning back against the couch. She slides down so she’s sitting next to him. In the distance, people are still setting off fireworks. It’s already almost midnight, the big shows are over. Now it’s just random, unpredictable bangs from the cheap, illegal ones that people fire off in their backyards. No lights, just noise. Each time the boom seems to reverberate through the walls. 

She’s shivering, even though the room is so warm. The only light is the moonlight through the windows, but Bellamy’s probably noticed. He breaks the silence, voice too tense to be making fun.

“Still scared of the dark, Princess?” 

She wants to protest. Shrug him off. Tell him not to call her princess. He’s trying to distract her. Distract himself. But another bang echoes through the house and she jolts, curling her hands into fists. All she can do is clench her jaw to try to stop shaking, and nod a little. 

Bellamy immediately softens. She doesn’t even need to see him to know his eyes have gone wide and gentle and his shoulders have relaxed. A feeling wells up inside her: the one she feels in the odd moments, during cinematic montages and right before concerts start. An empty sort of feeling. Like she just remembered something she forgot, but with her soul instead of her brain. Loneliness, almost, but not everyday loneliness. Like something big and important is missing. She’s all dressed up, sitting in a theater waiting for the lights to go down, keenly aware that a piece of her is gone. The overwhelming desire like a string inside her from the base of her pelvis to the top of her throat, wanting to jump up and shout _where are you?_ But who? Who’s not there?

She’s sitting in the dark, in an oversized t-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. Sweat sticks to her skin. It feels like there’s a hole inside her that’s always there but she doesn’t always notice. Her best friend is sitting next to her. It’s the Fourth of July. She wants to scream. Wants to know if he feels it too, this gaping, wanting aloneness. She has to say _something_ , but she doesn’t really know how, so the words that fall from her lips are:

“Remember that game we used to play when we were kids?”

His response is immediate and godsavingly casual. “Which one?”

Bellamy and Clarke have known each other for years. Almost a decade. They met in kindergarten. He was her new best friend instantly, dragging him to show her mother at the end of the first day. They spent almost every day together. Afternoons and evenings at Blakes’ apartment while Abby was on call, weekends at the Griffins’ house while Aurora was at work. They had a ton of games. They spent hours wandering around imaginary kingdoms, exploring imaginary territories, and making up detailed, imaginary lives. 

“House,” she says, and sees him nodding slowly. Their secret favorite. They used to bicker and barter about Adventurers, argue over who had to be the princess and who got to be the knight in shining armor, but one of them would suggest House and the other would agree instantly.

“You used to play the daddy, and I played the baby,” she says. 

“Yeah, I remember,” he says.

She looks over at him in the dark. She’s still trembling. A firework goes off. _Bang_. She flinches. The empty feeling widens, turns over. Maybe he can feel it too, because he reaches across and puts a hand on her knee. 

“We haven’t played pretend in ages,” he says softly.

“Want to play now?” she asks, adding quickly “you know, to pass the time.”

“Sure.”

Neither one of them moves for a minute, both of them just breathing in the dark. Swallowing. Caught between agreement and action. Until Clarke hesitantly tries out, “Daddy?”

His response is just as slow, just as tentative: “Baby…” and she lets out a shuddering breath.

His voice is rough. Deeper than last summer. He’s taller too, and broader through the shoulders. He keeps bumping into things, unused to his size. He broke a plate earlier that day when he forgot his new strength and slammed it down on the counter-top. Abby shrieked at him. Clarke takes a sick sort of pleasure in this. Last summer she had to be the awkward one. Her chest was too heavy, she bled too much, and he still got to be perfectly normal and alright. But now he’s caught up to her, and they can be weird together. Joined by their discomfort, displacement. Two explorers in uncharted territory. Now they have each other again. 

“Do you want to sit in my lap, baby?”

She nods. He flattens out his legs and she climbs over him, limbs askew. She’s too big to do this the way they used to; she ends up facing him with her knees under her, bracketing his legs in hers. He puts his hands on her shoulders, slides them up and down slowly. She’s still shaking.

“Baby,” he says again, and she breathes in and out deliberately.

“Daddy,” she repeats. She can just make out his face in the dark. Gentle wide eyes. Freckles. He smiles at her--not the same smile from the last time they did this, his lips are bigger and his jaw is stronger now, but just it’s just as reassuring.

“Baby,” he whispers.

“Daddy,” she whispers back. 

_Bang_. Another explosion sounds through the window. She jerks and it sends her forward, curling into his chest. His arms come around her. Strong. Tight.

“Shhh,” he says, “it’s okay, baby.” He starts rocking her back and forth gently. She shifts, presses her face into his neck. His tank-top is damp with sweat. The hair in his armpits scratches against her shoulders. He smells like him. He smells like home.

“It’s okay, baby,” he says again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

And she falls. Lets herself sink into the simple joy of playing pretend. The little girl she’s not allowed to be anymore, can never go back to, that she usually tries so hard leave behind. Her next words come out higher, softer. 

“Daddy, I’m scared.”

“It’s alright baby,” he says, and she thinks she can hear the same simplicity settle in him. “Daddy’s here.”

His arms are too warm around her. It’s too far into summer to be this close together without AC, but she wouldn’t trade it for the world. It’s been so long since she’s had a good hug. Her mom is always busy, and she and Bellamy can’t hug at school anymore. 

She hates growing up. The awkward new shapes she’s forced into becoming, the boxes they say she needs to fit herself in. She hates the assumptions people make now, the things they say about her best friend. She longs to crawl into a world where none of that exists.

Bellamy rocks her. “Daddy,” she whispers. And, “Baby,” he whispers back. Back and forth, quieter and quieter, until they fall silent and still as the house around them. 

They stay wrapped up in each other for a while, until Clarke shifts a little and sits up, and Bellamy’s hands slide down to her hips.

“Feeling better?” he asks, voice low and shy grin. She smiles back.

“Yes.” His thumbs rub small circles into the fabric of her t-shirt.

“What do you want to do now, Baby?”

They did all sorts of things when they played House, imitating things they saw in TV shows and movies. _Let’s have a tea party but you have to pretend not to like it_ or _We’re going grocery shopping and you have to hold my hand so you don’t get lost_. But right now, Bellamy’s hands are sliding gently over her hips and up her back, and she doesn’t want anything to change.

“Just this, Daddy,” she says, lip between her teeth. 

He smiles quietly, almost to himself, and looks away. “I like this.”

She nudges him. “Baby,” he adds. 

He smooths over her shoulder blades and down her arms, pressing gently on the tops of her thighs, and back around to her hips again. He avoids her underarms and the backs of her knees, where she’s ticklish. It makes her happy that he still remembers.

He slides his hands back around, then he pauses on her ribcage, just below her breasts. The half-beat hesitation is enough for her to tense up again. Something else they can’t do just because they’re older. Some other part of her that’s no longer okay to look at or share. Maybe the empty feeling is where all of her anger goes when her mom says things about her body. Frustration bubbles out of it, and she takes his wrists and slides his hands up, cupping her breasts. She’s not wearing a bra, because she _hates_ them, so her breasts fill his hands. They’d squish if Bellamy pressed his fingers down, but he doesn’t. He looks up at her, eyes wide. 

“It’s okay,” she tells him. She hates that she’s whispering, still, even though they’re alone. He can probably feel her vibrating in frustration. He rubs his hands over her stomach and around her back, up and down like he did earlier to stop the shaking. She calms, takes a deep breath, looks at him again.

“It’s okay,” she repeats. He nods. “Daddy,” she says.

“Baby,” he replies, and slides his hands back over her chest.

He’s gentle. He presses his thumbs into the hollow above her diaphragm and follows the natural swoop of her breasts outwards, cups them, brushes his palms over her nipples and up, rests his hands over the dip of her collarbone. She tilts her head back, closes her eyes. Enjoys the moment with her best friend, sitting together in the dark, outside of time. There hasn’t been a gunshot noise for so long, maybe they’ve finally stopped.

His fingers slide under her t-shirt, just brushing the skin there. She inhales quickly. She brings her own fingers around to toy with the hem. Their knuckles bump together.

He looks up into her eyes. “Baby,” he says. A question.

“Daddy.” Even in the dark, his eyes are deep, intense. 

“Do you want to show me?” 

_More than anything_. “Yes, Daddy,” she whispers. He pushes the edge of t-shirt up and she takes it and pulls it over her head, tossing it to the side. He stares at her. His hands rest on the curve of her hips. She likes the way her nipples pebble up as he looks at them, going from awkward to pretty. 

Pretty little girl.

She fidgets the longer he doesn’t say anything, thrumming with that strange aloneness, until finally she says:

“Do you like it, Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby,” he says, flicks his eyes up to hers, “you’re _beautiful_.”

Her _whole body_ flushes. Suddenly, she’s glad it’s dark. Suddenly the empty feeling turns into something _different_. Not anger, not loneliness--want. She wonders if her skin feels hotter with her blush. She hold her breath as he brushes his fingers over her ribs, her sides, up to her nipples. 

_Bang_. 

The room shakes. She can even see the shooting stars flash over the trees. She whips her head towards the windows and yells, “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

Bellamy lets out one surprised half-shout, then doubles over into her laughing and snorting. They’re both just learning to curse. Their mothers don’t like it, and secretly neither do they. So it’s become a kind of code. When there’s no other word for it. Bellamy is shaking against her, and she starts laughing too. The emptiness eases up, dissipates. Missing pieces forgotten. His head is resting on her shoulder, he’s looking up at her, and they’re both grinning at each other.

“Language, baby,” he says. She bites her lip teasingly.

“Don’t tell Mom?” He nods, and she knows he knows that she means her real mom, without having to say. There are no moms in playing pretend. Just like there are no daddies in real life.

The lightness of the moment makes her next words tumble out easy and happy:

“Do you remember that time you gave me a bath?” He quirks his eyebrows at her and nods. It’s something daddies do with babies, especially when they have all Saturday afternoon and Abby has conference calls in the downstairs office.

“You want to do that again?” she asks.

“Now?” 

“We could run the water cold,” she adds and he nods enthusiastically.

“Fuck yes,” he says. She giggles. But there’s an edge to his voice that she doesn’t like. She stands up and climbs off his lap. She doesn’t know why her heart is beating so fast. 

“Daddy?” she asks again, the only word even close to what she wants to know.

She swallows when she sees his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, even though he says, “Baby.”

“We,” she begins, voice again hard-angled and grown-up, “We, um, we don’t have to.”

His brow knits together. “No, I want to.” The breath leaves her chest in a whoosh. “It’s a good idea.”

He gets to his feet and walks over to her, stopping less than a foot in front of her. He brushes her hair behind her ear.

“Baby,” he says softly.

“Daddy,” she says, relieved. She snatches her t-shirt off the floor and leads the way up the stairs. 

...

The bathroom is better lit with moonlight. It makes the porcelain of the tub and sink glow and the rest of the room look shiftless blue. Bellamy stands with his back to the mirror because he thinks his reflection in the dark looks creepy. Clarke’s about a foot away from him, fiddling with the snap on her cutoffs. She chews on her bottom lip. He pulls his tank top over his head. Lining her thumbs up to make sure she catches her underwear too, she pushes her shorts and panties off her hips and to the floor, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side. She bends over to turn the water on while Bellamy finishes getting undressed. 

The coldest it will run is a cool lukewarm. She sighs. Puts the stopper in the bottom.

When she turns around again, Bellamy’s looking at her. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. The water pouring into the tub sounds so much louder than it usually does. Bellamy’s gaze, heavier. Sometimes she forgets being with Bellamy is not the same as being alone. She thinks he flushes, but it could be a trick of the moonlight. He looks nervous. She _feels_ nervous. 

“Do you want to get in first?”

He nods, “Sure.” Bumps into the porcelain as he climbs over the edge. He slides into the water, hissing first at the temperature, then sighing and leaning back.

“Joining me, baby?” he asks with his eyes closed. She steps into the tub. The water feels colder than she thought it would. She shoves his legs.

“Scoot over, Daddy.” Her tongue trips awkwardly over the last word. She tells herself it’s the cold. Or the hot. Or the difference between the two.

He pulls his legs up and she settles between them. She too sighs once she’s fully submerged. She takes a breath and shoves herself all the way underwater. Her bum bumps into his as she does, legs rubbing against each other, and she pulls back up. The feeling of wet skin on wet skin is so familiar and so maddeningly different. The hair on his legs creates friction. Her body doesn’t slide as well, shaped so differently from the tube she used to be. They’re both too big for the bathtub. But the gentle slip of tops of her feet against the sides of his torso takes her through time, back to naptimes and Saturday afternoons. Sleepovers and seventh birthday parties. Taking baths together to wash off the dirt before going back to their latest game or adventure. 

She remembers the splash fights they got into in the water. She remembers climbing up his chest and sliding down it on her belly, again and again, because it felt good. She remembers him doing superman poses on her back, slipping and sliding back and forth. Remembers how they played games, delicately poking each other with their eyes closed to see how it felt. Licking each others tongues to see what it tasted like. As children, they left no line uncrossed. There were no lines at all. Now she thinks she can see them, drawn out in body hair and blood. And like the body hair and the blood, she wishes they would just _go away_. 

“It’s bathtime, Daddy,” she says, pitching her voice high and splashing at the top of the water. He swallows and sits up. Gets the washcloth from the ledge where her mom keeps her soap and shampoo. 

“Don’t splash during bathtime, baby,” he says and she inhales, exhales heavily. He puts soap on the cloth and runs it over her body, studying her with a scrunched-up expression, like he gets when he’s doing math homework. 

Sometimes she thinks his eyes have gotten darker. Not in color, maybe, but depth. Like while she’s growing up and out of herself, he’s growing in. She extends, secretes--tears, blood, discharge--he redoubles, like their bio teacher’s diagram of the frontal cortex. Or like a cavern. Beautiful, jagged shapes growing inside him that no one else can see. Like that’s where all the tears go because he never cries anymore. It scares her, sometimes. The things he talks about. The books he reads. Secretly she thinks he might be smarter than her, even though she gets better grades. He called her a few weeks ago, really late at night, hours after they’d dropped her back at her house. He was worried about something. Panicked. She could hear it in his voice. But he couldn’t explain it, and she didn’t have a clue where to begin. Just listened at the other end of the line while he breathed in and out and she tried not to cry. 

Something is happening to her. Bellamy moves the cloth over her, over her nipples and shoulders, her legs under the water, her belly. This is not what it felt like when they played House. This feels kind of like fire. Like eating jalapenos. She’s burning up from the outside in. The empty feeling is back, the rope inside her pulled taught. Her attention split between the two ends, the base of her pelvis and the top of her throat. Bellamy’s hands run over her collarbone. It feels good, but it’s too good. Too much. 

“Daddy,” she says. Whines, really. He pauses, looks at her face. He lets the cloth go under the water and uses his free hand to brush her wet hair away from her eyes.

“Baby,” he says back. 

“Daddy,” she says. Puts her hand over his knee. “Can I wash you now?”

He swallows again, and nods slowly. She finds the cloth at the bottom of the tub and lifts it up, wringing out the extra water. The droplets pitter-patter against the bathwater. She puts more soap on it, massaging it until it creates a foamy lather, then rubbing it over his chest. 

She adds more soap until his entire chest is covered in tiny bubbles. He’s half grinning. She’s all-the-way grinning. They did this when they were kids too. Made soap bubble beards and hair-dos. Alien antennae and monkey ears. The empty feeling hums. Maybe there wasn’t enough of her when she started growing and that’s where the hole came from.

Scooting away from him in the tub, she drops the cloth and starts drawing patterns in the bubbles on his chest. Skims her fingers over his pectoral muscles, his belly. Tracing up and down his arms. She scoots back farther and follows his hairy legs inwards. Over his quads, his thighs, and up.

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised when she gets to his pelvis and find his penis there. And she hates that word. Hates the words _penis_ and _vagina_ and most of all _private parts_ , hates the way adults seem to whisper around those words, drawing lines and x’s over parts of her and calling them bad. She hates that feeling. She thinks she likes the word _dick_ , maybe because it’s a name too. Or it’s just short and easy to say. She doesn’t know what to call hers. _Pussy_ always tastes too sweet in her mouth, like too much candy. Supposed to be good but not good at all. _Cunt_ is supposed to be a really bad word, which is a shame because she still kind of likes it.

In any case, his dick is sitting where it’s supposed to be, kind of swollen and jutting out, which she knows from library books sometimes happens. She rests her hands on his upper thighs, and stares at it. It’s grown more than the rest of him since kindergarten. Or it feels like it’s grown more. Maybe because she hasn’t been looking. This thing no else sees. _Stalactite._ She wonders what it feels like, if the hair around it is the same texture as the hair on his legs. And she knows… knows things. Has heard people at school whispering after gym class. Knows it could feel good for him too. She brushes her thumbs over the skin of his inner thighs. Hears his elbows bump against the wall of the porcelain tub.

“ _Stop_ ,” he whispers harshly. She looks up at him. She didn’t notice that he’d gone all tense. His jaw is clenched, the veins in his neck standing out. He’s gripping the sides of the tub. He looks like he’s in pain.

“Sorry,” she says, pushing away from him. The water swirls. She wants to hide. She never wants to hurt him.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight. She can see his adam's apple bob. Up and down. “Please…” he grits out.

“What’s wrong?” her voice is small, little.

“Please don’t touch it,” he whispers. He’s not looking at her. This time, she knows he’s blushing. His face is red, even in the moonlight. His knuckles white against the tub.

“Okay,” she whispers back. “Okay--it’s _okay_.”

He shakes his head in a tight back and forth. His face screwed up. She doesn’t know what to do.

“I’m sorry,” she says. He blinks, opens his eyes, looks away.

“It’s not you,” he says in a strangled tone.

She places her hands gently on his biceps, sliding down until she can tangle their fingers together. “It’s okay,” she says. He swallows, clenches his jaw.

“I don’t want to be there yet,” he whispers. 

_Too much_ , she thinks. She squeezes his hands, he squeezes back. He tilts his head back, looking up a the ceiling. Closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, voice cracking.

“We don’t have to,” she says. He shakes his head.

“Can’t,” he says, “Have to. There nothing-- can’t do anything. Have too.”

She grips his hands and pulls them towards each other. She’d worry about his grip cutting off her blood circulation if she wasn’t holding just as tight. She shakes his arms until he drops his head back down and looks at her. Meets her eyes.

“We don’t have to go anywhere we don’t want to,” she says. He shakes his head again, but she leans further into his space.

“It’s _imagination_ ,” she whisper-shouts at him. Something he used to shout at her all the time when they were little and he got mad while playing pretend. “We can do whatever we want.”

It works. His face cracks. For a second, she thinks maybe he’s going to cry. But he just exhales sharply. Gives her a small smile, lips wobbly. She smiles back. 

“Daddy,” she says. He’s nodding. 

“Baby,” he says. Loosens his grip on her hands. They tap their fingers together. “Can I wash your hair?”

She nods, and has to stand up to turn around. She settle again with her back to him, rests her arms in her lap. She hears the click of the shampoo bottle, and feels his hands in her hair.

As he works, she thinks she can feel the tension slip out of him. She can still feel his dick bumping her lower back from time to time. His breaths are very even regular. She closes her eyes. Tries to let herself sink back into the game. Little girl. Daddy. Let him take care of her. Let him get to control what happens to her. Let him control what happens to himself.

She breathes into the empty place. Tries to forget the missing piece. Maybe this is why they stopped playing pretend: because somewhere along the way forgetting had to become a thing you do, not just something that happens. The feeling loosens. Aloneness narrowing. Being with Bellamy is not the same thing as being alone. His fingers work through her hair, delicately avoiding the tangles. Quiet grace. Probably smarter. Her best friend.

He taps her should when he’s done, cups her forehead and helps her lean back to rinse out the soap.

“Time to sleep, Daddy?”

His face curves into a smile. “Yes, baby.”

She gets out of the tub. Gets a towel for her hair, hands one to him. They dry off in silence. The power is still out; there are no more fireworks. 

She wraps the towel around herself, turns to him. He has his tied around his waist, back stubbornly to the mirror. She grabs his hand.

“Let’s go lie down,” she whispers. He nods, and she leads them to her room. 

They settle onto her bed, still dressed in towels. She curls up against him, head on his shoulder, like they’ve been doing for years. She wants to say something, something about doing this again sometime. Something about how safe this all felt. Something about the emptiness, or the panic, or the gaping alone feeling. Something about how being with him is better than being alone or about how she wants to be closer to him. Wants to run headfirst into that terrifying _too much_ with him. Wants to keep playing. That none of this was really pretend, but it wasn’t the terror that _real_ has become. 

But she doesn’t have the words for that, so instead she says something simpler, something they’ve also been saying for years: “I love you.”

She can hear the smile in his deep, rough voice “I love you too.”

“Daddy?” she whispers.

“Yes, baby?”

“Will you sing to me?”

He nods, and after his a second his voice starts up, low and rumbly and off-key. She snuggles into him. 

_Half of what I say is meaningless  
_ _But I say it just to reach you, Julia_

She knows they can curl up in her bed for as long as they want. Even if her mom comes home, she won’t care. No one really cares about them. As long as Octavia isn’t throwing a fit, as long as Clarke is making straight As, they can basically do whatever they want. They care about about each other. Even if the power never comes back on, even if they have to get old and weird, even if the emptiness comes back and swallows her whole, they can stay here as long as they want.

Play pretend at being okay. 

Maybe that’s enough for now.

_When I cannot sing my heart  
_ _I can only speak my mind, Julia_

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @that-this-will-do! and if you liked it, consider [reblogging](https://that-this-will-do.tumblr.com/post/186191215342/oh-to-live-on-sugar-mountain-the-100-bellarke) the photoset


End file.
